


Blackout

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Drinking, Fluff and Smut, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mycroft is Sweet, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock wakes up after a party in 221B with a hangover. Soon he finds out that his evening was rather… exciting.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 58
Kudos: 109





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Just some cracky fluff.

“Ugh…” Sherlock had tried to raise his head. Bad mistake.

“Yeah. Very ‘ugh’. Drink this.”

It had to be John who was speaking. It sounded like him. Sherlock just couldn’t open his eyes right now.“Whatsdat?”

“Pardon? Oh, it’s hot water with lemon and some secret ingredients. Mrs Hudson said it always helps her with hangovers.”

On any normal day, Sherlock would have been deeply suspicious towards his landlady’s horrid, self-brewed medications. Today he didn’t care. He downed the stuff. And almost puked. “S’ghassly!” he complained.

“Yeah.” John, the heartless bastard, chuckled. “You know what they say. The more horrible it tastes, the better it helps.”

Sherlock could only hope that this was true. What had happened? Oh. The party… Another ghastly party. What had they even celebrated? Yeah. John and him moving back into 221B after the patience grenade. Was it still night? He finally dared to open his eyes just a tiny bit. And closed them again very quickly. No. Definitely day. “How many days have I lost?”

“Ah, you are talking in full sentences again. See – it does help! None, Sherlock. The party was yesterday evening. I wouldn’t even say ‘night’. You dropped out at nine-thirty.”

How much could he even have drunk in such a short time? A lot, apparently. His head felt as if an elephant had been sitting on it. His tongue seemed to have grown a carpet. Had he even showered after the drinking session aka party?

“Do you remember anything from yesterday?” John asked him in a casual tone. Too casual…

Sherlock narrowed his eyes after forcing them open again. The sight of John’s gruesome jumper almost made him close them completely again. “Why?”

John, who looked as if he’d had exactly one beer and slept like a baby, shrugged. “Just asking.”

“What did I do?”

“Ah. You were in a very good mood. Danced with Molly.”

“Oh no…” He had hardly seen her after this ‘ _I love you’_ nonsense in Sherrinford. And every time they had met, the atmosphere had been rather awkward.

“Relax. She’s just met someone. Phil’s his name.”

He must have deleted this, too. “Was he there?”

“No. It’s too fresh, she said.”

Or perhaps he didn’t exist… Not that it mattered. “What else?” There must have been more.

“You called Greg 'Giovanni' and we all laughed,” chuckled John.

“Who?” John’s howling laughter almost killed him. “Be quiet!”

John sighed. “You said Mrs Hudson was your actual mother. She almost cried.”

“Oh.” Well… The relationship with his real mother had never been that great, and it had not gotten any better after Sherrinford. True, at first Mummy had called him the grown-up (what a joke) and he had tried to reconcile the family. They had come to Sherrinford, and he and Eurus had played the violin for them. But unfortunately, his sister had done nothing else since then. She’d just been playing and playing and playing and not saying a word. And his parents seemed to blame him for this. Which was bullshit. Every bit as stupid as blaming Mycroft for her incarceration and the lies about her. Uncle Rudy had started this, and what should Mycroft have done about it? He had only been a boy. And when he had taken over, Eurus had not been exactly ‘re-integrate into the family’ material… Anyway… Yes. Mrs Hudson was like a mother for him. Not just for bringing him tea and biscuits and taking care of the laundry. She had always listened to him. Always had a friendly word for him. Fine, she had forced him into her trunk not so long ago by holding him at gunpoint. But she had meant well. She had offered him her guest room to meet clients and sleep in it after Eurus had blown 221B up. It had worked quite well.

But he was glad to have his flat back of course, and John and Rosie had moved in, too. Rosie’s bed had been set up in John’s room. It wasn’t an arrangement that would work forever. But one day there would be a second Mrs Watson, hopefully a nice, harmless one, and John and his daughter would move out again. But for now, it was fine. They were fine. Dark times lay behind them. Sincere apologies had been made. They were good. Not just as they had been before his fake death and Mary, but good enough to go on together.

“Yeah. Good old Mrs Hudson. She’s sleeping in, too, it seems. Had quite a bit of champagne.” John chuckled.

Sherlock couldn’t remember having seen her drunk the previous evening but he had seen her pretty pissed before. A fun sight for sure. “Lestrade? He’s not here, is he?”

“Nah. He only had a couple of beers and was still walking straight when he left. Nobody’s here anymore.”

There had been a strange undertone in John’s voice. What was he still missing? “Tell me, John.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Your brother’s come home well, too, I suppose. I took his phone and called his driver. Nice man. Was there five minutes later and… Well. I’m sure he’ll be… okay.”

Mycroft. Mycroft had been here? Mycroft?! “Did I invite him?”

“Not really, no. I did.”

“You did?! Why? You hate him!”

“Ah, ‘hate’ is a strong word. Found him always quite annoying. Overbearing. But then – Sherrinford.”

Where Mycroft had offered to die so Sherlock would not even think of shooting John. But… “You said, _‘What goes around, comes around’_ when we…”

“Yeah, I remember. Not a very nice thing to say. Still. He was pretty great there.”

He had been indeed. Brave. Decent. Human. A good man, his brother. He should text him. But… wait… “You said that _you_ called his driver?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t quite in the condition to do it.”

So Mycroft had drunk, too. A lot. With him? To be able to endure the party full of goldfish? Sherlock finally dared to sit up. His head had been resting on two pillows before. He seemed to be wearing only his shorts and a t-shirt. Who had brought him to bed? John, probably. John, who was still holding something back. They would have to get there. But first, he had to go somewhere, he realised. Rather urgently, in fact. “I need to…”

“Yeah, guess so.” John stepped back so he could get out of bed. He had a strange look on his face and opened his mouth as if he wanted to tell him what this was about. But he didn't. And right now, Sherlock had more pressing matters to take care of. Quite literally.

He hurried out of his bedroom as fast as he dared.

°°°

John watched him leave, stepping from one foot to the other. And he winced when he heard the scream a few seconds after the toilet had been flushed. At least Sherlock had taken care of his bladder before he had looked into the mirror. Otherwise there would have most certainly been a mishap.

He steeled himself when Sherlock burst into the room, gesturing at his neck. “What is that, John?!”

“No vampire marks, I can assure you,” John made a rather poor attempt at a joke. It didn’t go down well.

“John!” Two detective hands were thrown in the air, and a certain furious, curly-haired man looked as if he wanted to bite John.

“Sit down first,” John said, soothingly.

“I don’t want to sit down!” Sherlock screeched. “Where does this come from? Tell me this instant!”

“It’s a hickey.”

“I can see that! I saw them on corpses. And you, sometimes. Oh God… You…”

“No, Sherlock. I can assure you I didn’t suck your swanlike neck. You have the wrong anatomy for me.”

“Gunther?!”

“It’s _Greg_ , Sherlock.” He shook his head about himself the next second but of course Sherlock had already jumped to (wrong) conclusions and was expressing them vigorously.

“Oh _God_. How should I ever solve a case for him again? And you said he’d only drunk a few beers! Did he make me drunk to have his wicked way with me?!”

Sometimes Sherlock really was a drama queen. But John could see why he was overacting now. “No, I merely corrected the name. It wasn’t him. Greg’s straight as a line.”

“Then who?”

John shrugged, and he could literally see Sherlock going through a very short list of people, eliminating them. Well, there were only two more to eliminate – the two women. The hickey was right under his left ear, much too high for either of them. The conclusion came soon enough.

Sherlock’s face got whiter than fresh snow. “Oh. My. God.”

“Rather your brother.” The cat was out of the bag after all. Time to attempt bringing a light note to this again. It didn’t work, of course.

“I…” Sherlock made a helpless gesture with his hand.

“… snogged with your brother as if it’s about to be forbidden tomorrow, yes. Well, actually it is, I guess… Anyway. Come, sit down now.” He hurried to grab Sherlock and guide him to the bed before he collapsed.

“Mycroft…”

“Yep. That’s the one.” Damn. It had come like a shock. But it had been… funny. And pretty… sweet, actually. They had been bickering first but without any real hostility. And then they had ended up on the sofa. Kissing the living daylights out of each other… Molly had almost fainted. But then John had seen that she didn’t even mind it that much. He might not be able to do deductions like the Holmeses but he was quite sure he knew what had gone through her mind: if Sherlock was gay, what chance would she have ever had with him? None. And who could compete with his own brother, a man even smarter than Sherlock himself? Nobody. So perhaps it had finally made her get rid of her unhappy love for Sherlock.

And Greg hadn’t even looked all that surprised. Almost as if he had expected this to happen one day. Well, he had seen the boys interact long before John. Had stood next to quite a few hospital beds, John supposed. Seen Mycroft being desperate…

And Mrs Hudson had all but swooned. Mrs Turner might have married ones, but she had the incestuous ones now…

And John had wondered why he wasn’t feeling repulsed. And then he had thought that this was the best that could happen to Sherlock – being together with the one man who had never let him down. Okay, he had sent him on a death mission to punish him for killing Magnussen. But he had gotten him back to deal with Moriarty, and John was sure he would have gotten him out anyway. And John would not be at Sherlock's side forever. And never as a lover anyway. And who else than Mycroft would be able to keep up with the destructive detective?

But Sherlock didn’t seem to see anything positive in his experience. Probably because he couldn’t remember it… And John could very well imagine how Mycroft had to be feeling. Or would be feeling if he was still out and still had to face what had happened. Probably they were in need of some support.

“I’d say you’re head over heels.”

Sherlock stared up to him. “In love… with my brother.” His voice was completely toneless.

“Yep. With your brother. The only man who can keep up with you. Who’s known you all your life, was insulted by you probably since you learned to talk and still always got you out of every shit.” John remembered the agreement of ‘the list’. Mycroft had not lied. He had always been there for Sherlock.

“But… God… He will be mortified.”

“Yes. Definitely. So go over and tell him it’s okay. All your friends know about it. And we’re all fine with it.”

Sherlock stared at him in utter horror and disbelief. “Fine with it?” he echoed then.

“Yeah. Sure. It is what it is. Holmes loving Holmes. Go for it.”

“I need a coffee,” Sherlock mumbled after staring at him as if he’d grown four additional noses for a minute.

John grinned. “On the way. Think about it. You two are totally meant for each other. You would drive everybody else crazy.”

“We drive _each other_ crazy!”

“True, but you also are crazy for each other.” John pulled out his phone. “I’ll delete it later but I thought you might want to see it.”

“You made a video of us?!”

“I did. So you can see.” Because John had expected such a scene to happen. Sometimes _he_ was the smart one. Well, to be honest, it had been Mrs Hudson’s idea…

And Sherlock took the phone, and John left him to it to make fresh coffee. He heard Sherlock groan behind him and thought that the two Holmes men probably had some way to go before they were able to accept this. But in the end they would. They were quite smart, after all… Destiny and all that nonsense, obviously… They would figure it out – he hoped.

He had not been very nice to Sherlock for a long time. They had reconciled, and he was glad that Sherlock had forgiven him for something unforgivable – his violence. If he could make up for this a little bit by making Sherlock become happy with a man who would rather hang himself than ever hurting him, brother or not, he would take the chance.

Then he heard Sherlock murmur _‘fucking hell’_ and chuckled to himself.


	2. Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes’ beginning of this remarkable Sunday was a little bit different to Sherlock's. Obviously, because he didn’t share his house with anyone. He had a housekeeper, Mrs Luther, but she only came twice a week to take care of the mess he didn't make, and only when he was at work so he never saw her. He didn't need anyone to remind him of the events of the previous evening, either. It didn’t take him long to remember. At least the basic facts, that is.

When he had opened his eyes, the light in his bedroom showed him that he had slept in. Which was very unusual for him, even on a Sunday. Usually he woke up at six, like on any work day. It was nearly ten now, he deduced.

Something felt odd about his lips, and he licked over them. Sore. His head was throbbing, too. He had drunk. Too much. And he had done something with his lips.

Yes. He had kissed Sherlock. Thoroughly.

He didn't rip the poor rest of his hair out after this realisation. Didn’t scream in terror. He was too much in control of his reactions for a visible or audible meltdown, or perhaps he simply felt too shocked to do anything else than bringing out a strangled gasp.

He had kissed Sherlock. His baby brother. The man he had loved for twenty years, in ways no older brother should love his younger one. Had hidden his misguided emotions (and yes: desires) behind the mask of the superior older brother.

How could this have happened? How could he have done something so unforgivable? He didn’t actually recall who had started kissing whom. But that didn’t matter. He was the older one. The more responsible one. Yes, their mother had called Sherlock the ‘grown-up’ but they all knew that this wasn’t quite true.

He might not have been fully responsible for the mayhem that Eurus had caused but in this case he would have agreed with his mother: he should have done better, and he obviously was very limited… limited in self-restraint for sure.

And he felt deeply ashamed when he realised that what he was regretting the most was the fact that he couldn’t remember more than brief glimpses. Glimpses of Sherlock's sparkling eyes with widely blown pupils. His lips had been soft, surely. But this was rather an assumption than a memory. And wasn’t this really the worst? He had destroyed their brotherly relationship – because who would have doubted that Sherlock would hate and despise him when he found out what had happened – and he couldn’t even remember it. Certainly Sherlock had tasted wonderful. His plush lips must have felt so good on his. His tongue would have been sweet and strong and delicious. Had his arms been wrapped around his little brother’s slim waist? Had he sniffed at him?

He didn’t know. He was the man who remembered everything, but the most precious – and yes, most scandalous – memories of his life had been drowned in alcohol. And he would never get them back.

And of course he would never see Sherlock again. There was no way that his brother would talk to him. Only for accusing him of having abused him. He might come and throw harsh words at him, each of them completely deserved. And then he would turn and go and never come back, and when Mycroft even dared try to contact him, John would…

Oh… God. John. John and Mrs Hudson and the mousy pathologist and… DI Gregory Lestrade… They had all witnessed this, hadn't they? Because he might not remember a whole lot of the previous evening, but he did remember that the unspeakable had taken place on Sherlock's brand new couch, and he doubted that the others had conveniently disappeared before he had gotten his dirty paws at his precious brother.

Surely he would be arrested. It was not Lestrade’s division so he hadn’t done it right away. But today they would come and take them where he belonged – behind bars. But nothing might happen to Sherlock! He was innocent.

Groaning, he dragged himself out of his bed and into the bathroom. If he was to be brought away in handcuffs, he would at least not go un-showered, unshaven and without having used his toothbrush. And he would go in an impeccable three-piece-suit. Dark-grey would be suitable, he assumed. Light-grey shirt. Matching pocket square. Without sleeve garters though. They would only take them away from him...

Having gotten a clearer head under the punishing cold spray a few minutes later, he conceded that he might have dramatized the legal aspects a bit. These people were Sherlock's friends after all, and he had probably not physically forced Sherlock to do anything. They would perhaps not say anything to avoid causing his brother any trouble. And in the end – they had not exactly broken the law. French kissing your brother was certainly not an appropriate thing to do, but it wasn't sex. They hadn't had sex, had they – there on the couch, in front of all these people? No. He _would_ remember this, and neither his cock nor his arse felt suspiciously sore. Only his lips and his heart…

°°°

There was no way to eat anything now. He wouldn’t even have been able to nibble at dry toast at it would have stuck in his throat. But he made himself strong coffee and slumped into a kitchen chair heavily. What was he supposed to do now? Text his brother – Sherlock's preferred way of communicating? What would he write? _Sorry for kissing you. How is everybody today?_

He knew that it wouldn’t make any sense to try and formulate a text. There were no words for this. Sherlock would hate him even more than he had when he had been ten. Mycroft had never been exactly sure why Sherlock couldn’t stand him anymore. It had been – of course! – long before he had discovered his not-exactly-brotherly feelings for him so it couldn’t have been because Sherlock had deduced them. He never had – or he would have certainly thrown them into his face ages ago.

They had not behaved like cat and dog from the start. In fact, Sherlock had admired and idolised him when he had been a child. His friendship with Victor Trevor had taken some of his attention away from Sherlock but when they had been alone, Sherlock had still snuggled up to him when Mycroft had been reading something for him, usually blood-thirsty pirate stories. They had spent so much time together. Mycroft had seen a teacher at home so he hadn’t go away for school. But in the end, he had to leave for university.

Was it that easy? Was this the reason for them drifting apart? Probably. Sherlock had felt abandoned, no matter how often he had called him and had made time to visit him, only to be glared at – and when Sherlock had been seventeen, he had realised that he had fallen in love with his brilliant, moody, beautiful little brother, and it had filled him with shame and shock and self-hatred. Things had never been good between them anymore.

They had become slightly better only when he and Sherlock had prepared his dismantle-Moriarty’s-network-mission. Sherlock had been less caustic. Less hostile. It had made it even harder for Mycroft to hide his feelings for him. Two years of missing him had not done anything to weaken his desires. And how helpless he had been feeling when Sherlock had been tortured right in front of him in Serbia… And in this one sweet moment when he had gotten Sherlock off the shackles, his brother had slumped into his embrace for a brief moment, and this feeling was something he would definitely never forget. He had brought him home – to lose him to John again. He had wanted to see Sherlock at the Watson’s wedding so badly when Sherlock had asked him to come, but he hadn’t dared. He had been too afraid of giving his unnatural feelings away. He had dared show his happiness about Sherlock mentioning that he had liked his Lady Bracknell, and yes, in Sherrinford, he had certainly lowered his shields in the face of a death that hadn’t come, but never so much that Sherlock could have become suspicious about the nature of his feelings.

Well, this was something he didn't have to worry about anymore. Slowly, he walked over to the living room and sat down in his armchair, waiting for the axe to fall, or rather for Sherlock to come over and condemn him. Maybe he wouldn’t, though. Maybe he would not want to be in his presence even for destroying him.

But when Mycroft had been sitting there for only ten minutes, the doorbell rang. He didn't get up to open up. He couldn’t even move. And then the door was opened up and he heard steps, and he knew that his doom was about to come.


	3. Sherlock And Mycroft

Mycroft was feeling guilty – not a difficult deduction for Sherlock. His brother looked like a picture of misery, sitting in his armchair. Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised to see a stiff drink in his hand, no matter how early it was and how much they had drunk the previous day. But Mycroft was just sitting there, looking up to him as if he was expecting The Last Judgement.

So he certainly did remember what had happened but he had forgotten the details, too, obviously.

Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy for his usually so eloquent big brother. He was dressed like a man of the world, as always, and he was clean shaven and showered, but he looked completely miserable nonetheless. So Sherlock approached him like he would have an injured animal. “Good morning, Mycroft.”

“Good… good morning, Sherlock.” Mycroft's voice was so quiet that it was barely there. And he sounded surprised. As if Sherlock's calm demeanour shouldn’t have told him that Sherlock wasn’t here to get at his throat.

“Have a headache, too?” Sherlock tried to lighten up the atmosphere. And jumped into the air when Mycroft basically threw himself at his feet.

“I’m so, so sorry, little brother. I know you must hate me now and I have no excuse whatsoever. Please forgive me!”

 _My God_. Sherlock had expected a difficult conversation, but he had certainly not expected this. He bent down to grab Mycroft's arm. “Get up, brother, please. Let’s sit down on the couch. Oh…”

Mycroft groaned but Sherlock surprised them both with chuckling. “How can you be so cool about this?” Mycroft asked in wonder while he was scrambling to his feet with Sherlock's help.

Sherlock had not been very cool at the start. Not exactly. He had been terrified… How could he have done this? He had known that it would be horrible for Mycroft to face him. What would they do about it?

But then John had made clear that all his friends were supporting them. Neither of them seemed to question that two brothers should want to be lovers. Two brothers who had been estranged for ages, above all. And Sherlock had remembered how Mycroft had been looking at him when he had offered to die in Sherrinford. Divested of all shields, for once. Not quite all of them, though. One last shield had still been in place. Because Sherlock had not remembered how they had ended up snogging on the couch, but he had known one thing for sure: Mycroft would have never done this, drunk or not, if he had not been in love with him but Sherlock had not seen this before.

And then he had watched the video. The tone had been ghastly, almost incomprehensible, but the pictures had been clear enough. They had been talking. Or rather: arguing. About Eurus. Their parents. Sherlock’s last case, which hadn’t even been overly dangerous, but Mycroft had complained about him getting himself into trouble once more. And then he had reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock had now recalled how it had felt. Mycroft's large, warm hand on his face. The surprisingly loving look in his eyes. But he could still not really remember how he had more or less jumped at his brother then, kissing him senseless. He had watched it, had heard the surprised remarks of his friends (including John’s ‘fucking hell’), but he couldn’t remember how it had felt to kiss his brother’s pretty lips.

And he couldn’t stand it.

“It happened, Mycroft; there is no use in fretting our heads about it,” he said now. They had somehow found the way to the couch together and sat down. With some distance between them. “And it was me who started it.” And he had done it for the same reason, hadn’t he? Because he had been, deeply hidden even from himself, been in love with his brother. If he had to guess when this had happened, he would have picked that intense moment when their lives had been at stake. And when big brother had been so brave...

“That’s no excuse,” Mycroft said, stubbornly and not unexpectedly whatsoever. “I as the older brother…”

“…had no chance to get away from me. I’ve seen it.”

“What?” Mycroft gaped at him.

Sherlock nodded. Then he took out his phone. “John deleted it from his phone but he sent it to me first. Look at it.”

“Never in my life!”

Sherlock tilted his head and put the phone onto his brother’s thigh after starting the video file. “I get it. It’s embarrassing and all. But… I need you to watch it. There is no reason for you to feel guilty.”

Mycroft gaped at him a bit more but then he reluctantly took the phone to glance at the video, his cheeks flushed as if he had a fever.

“I should, maybe, but I don’t, either,” Sherlock informed him.

Mycroft turned to him. “Huh?”

“I… Look at us. We look… great together. John and Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson – they all saw it.”

“Dear Lord…”

“...and they like it.”

“No bloody way!” Mycroft's eyes were huge now.

“Oh yes. No reason to let any of them disappear. They’ll keep their mouths shut. None of them is stupid. Mrs Hudson thinks it’s a pity she can’t tell her neighbour but she said she wants you to come over soon. She’ll make cake for us.” She had appeared in 221B when he had been (more or less) ready to leave.

“And poison my slice,” Mycroft said, darkly, and Sherlock giggled.

“No, Mycroft. They are all very fond of us. Even Molly…” John had explained his theory to him and he found it rather convincing. Molly couldn’t have him and she certainly still wanted him, but if he was gay and, above all, in love with his own brother, she would have never stood a chance. Not that she would have, anyway… But perhaps it was less painful like this.

“Even Lestrade?”

“Oh, especially Lestrade.” He had not spoken with him yet, but he could imagine that Lestrade wasn’t averse to the idea of them being together because he had always been worried about him. Long before John had appeared on the scene, it had been Lestrade who had made sure he made it for another day. He and his brother, the true constants in his life. And Lestrade had to know that he was in the best of hands with Mycroft. Who could doubt that anyway?

Perhaps he was being presumptuous. They had kissed. That was it. Who said Mycroft wouldn’t even want to be together with him? But he could see it. He might not know his brother nearly as well as he should have, but he was pretty sure about this. “It’s fine, Mycroft. And… Isn’t it a shame that I can’t remember how it felt to kiss you? I mean, I’ve watched this and I know that it happened. But… I want to know how it feels to kiss you. To… be held by you. Is that so horrible?”

Mycroft gave him a long look of utter wonder. “No,” he said then. “It is not. Not if you really… want this? But how _can_ you even? You haven’t even liked me for ages and…”

And then Sherlock closed the distance and kissed him because sometimes actions did speak louder than words, and after a moment of shock, Mycroft curled his arms around him and kissed him back, and Sherlock realised that it felt damn _great_ to kiss his brother.

°°°

There had to be a special place in hell for older brothers who were kissing their younger siblings, but with every minute that passed like this, Mycroft cared less about if he was about to go there.

Kissing Sherlock was divine. There was no question that his brother was enjoying himself every bit as much as he was, and if this was wrong, well, he didn’t give a damn. He had always wanted to protect Sherlock, keep him safe and see him happy, and there was no place he was safer than in his embrace.

Sherlock’s arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, his mouth was soft and warm and pliant, he was uttering little noises of pleasure, and Mycroft was pretty sure that his brother’s trousers had gotten as tight as his own. This was illegal and immoral and it felt wonderful, and Mycroft thought he could be doing this for the rest of his life.

Sherlock had other plans though. When they parted for air – and it had been a close call – little brother looked up to him through these pretty, black lashes. “This is awesome, brother. I wonder if touching you without clothes feels that great as well.”

“We didn’t do that before, did we?” He had to ask. He had looked at the video but he had not seen the end.

Sherlock grinned. “No. Obviously we both fell asleep during kissing.”

“Oh. I hope not because I’m such a bad kisser.”

“What a gentleman you are. You are a perfect kisser and I never did it before and probably almost drowned you with my spit.”

“Not in the least. You’re a very fast learner.”

“I will need more practice though.”

So Sherlock really wanted to continue this? It was not just about finding out how it was, to be stored away in his mind palace? “With pleasure,” Mycroft said, softly. “And if you are really sure, we can go upstairs and get more comfortable, and you can find out if you like touching my hairy flesh.”

Sherlock glanced at the stray chest hairs that were obviously poking out of his shirt after their activities. Mycroft had never found his hirsute body overly attractive, but judging by Sherlock's hungry look, his brother begged to differ. Perhaps he would change his mind if he saw Mycroft in the nude but Mycroft was past trying to talk him out of anything. If Sherlock wanted to have him, Sherlock would get him. If things between them didn’t work, it would break his heart, and he would do everything in his power to avoid losing Sherlock completely. He would never…

“Stop thinking, Mycroft. I can hear you, and it’s futile. I may not have had a lot of time to think about this, about us, but you know I never needed a lot of time to process new data. I want to be with you, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, and have been latest since Sherrinford, and now I want to explore you. And I’m not going to drop you afterwards!”

Mycroft thought that this sounded too good to be true, but he didn’t say anything but, “I’m yours, little brother. Have my heart. You’ve always had it anyway.” Sherlock had not actually asked for his heart, he realised. He had wanted his body.

And his brother deduced his thoughts once more. “Your heart, your body, your cock – you know I’m greedy. I want it all.”

And Mycroft smiled, knowing that he would get it all. He had hardly ever said ‘no’ to Sherlock, and he wouldn’t start now. He got up and took his hand. “Follow me, brother mine.”

“ _Lover_ mine, too.”

“ _All_ mine.”

“Yes. All yours.”

And then Mycroft was leading the way, feeling as if he was taking his bride to bed.

°°°

Oh, Mycroft had not promised too much – he _was_ hairy. Very hairy. His chest, his stomach, even his shoulders were hairy. And Sherlock loved it. He nuzzled his face against warm, hairy flesh, stroking it where he could reach it. Above the waist, so far. Mycroft had sat down on the bed and just taken off his waistcoat (he had lost the jacket before). Then he had unbuttoned his shirt with his beautifully long, shivering fingers.

And Sherlock had sniffed and kissed and stroked him, licking over a hard, pink nipple, making his brother gasp. Mycroft’s hand was caressing Sherlock's back – of course he had lost most of his clothes before joining his brother on the bed. He was only wearing his shorts, actually. And something seemed to be determined to escape out of them.

“May I?” It was a rather rhetorical question as Sherlock's hand was already placed on Mycroft's crotch.

Obviously unable to even say ‘yes’ (and definitely not in the mood to say ‘no’), Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock started to stroke him through his trousers. He had never touched a man’s cock. Apart from his own. Which had never been overly exciting. And perhaps he had, for scientific reasons only, tugged at some dead ones. They had not felt like this. Hard and throbbing and hot. They had felt rather… dead. “Get it out, please?”

Sherlock pulled at the seam of his own shorts to show that he was ready to take things a bit further. He knew that it was pretty soon after discovering his feelings for his brother, but who knew if Mycroft wouldn’t succumb to his guilty feelings and refuse to give it a second go? Sherlock didn’t think that this was very probable but his brother could be very stubborn about morals and laws and all this bullshit that Sherlock didn’t give a damn about.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am,” nodded Sherlock and a moment later his shorts were flying through the air. His hard cock bobbed against his stomach, and Mycroft stared at it and unconsciously licked his lips, which was probably a good sign.

And then Mycroft showed him what he had, and he had _a lot_ , and Sherlock couldn’t get his hand around the large, thick, rosy thing quickly enough, stroking it without finesse but lots of awe and fervour.

“God, Sherlock, stop,” Mycroft rasped out, trying to bat his hand away.

“Why? Am I doing it so wrongly?” He could hardly believe that as the massive thing had gotten even longer under his ministrations.

“No. You’re doing it too well…”

“Ah.” Sherlock grinned. “Never mind. We have all day to make you spurt ten more times.”

Mycroft gave him a wry grin. “Eleven times? Your faith in my libido honours me but don’t forget that I’m over forty…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you hard as often as necessary.” And if Mycroft wanted to bite his neck some more, he wouldn’t object, either.

“Somehow I have no doubt. So go ahead. Make me… spurt, as you so nicely put it.”

And Sherlock did. He squeezed and rubbed and teased for a full minute more before Mycroft brought out a strangled noise and suddenly there was a big mess on his stomach and Sherlock's hand. And Mycroft groaned when Sherlock licked the stickiness from his fingers.

“I’m a scientist, you know,” Sherlock informed him. “And I like the taste. It’s salty but also…”

“Please, could you refrain from listing it?”

“Spoilsport.” His brother was a bit of a prude, especially considering that he had once teased Sherlock with not knowing anything about sex… Oh, they had both said things – well, most of the time it had been Sherlock – that had not been that good. “Sorry about all the weight jokes and refusing to take your cases and twisting your arm and drugging you and…”

“It’s all right, little brother,” Mycroft interrupted him, and the expression in his eyes could only be described as ‘very fond’. “Things were not easy between us. I left you behind when I went to university, and you felt…”

“...lost,” Sherlock finished his sentence. He had never really thought about why they had become more enemies than brothers. “That was stupid. I apologise for resenting you for that, too.”

“There is no need. I am sorry that I never really understood. And I was not an easy big brother to deal with. I should have gone against Magnussen when you asked me.”

Oh. This heavy subject… And Sherlock's cock was still hard… “I think… we need to talk about a lot of things, Mycroft. And we will.” And hopefully without rowing… “But first…” He gestured at his neglected groin.

“Oh, apologies. Give me two minutes.”

It took him one-and-a-half. Mycroft had very capable hands, which could do more than holding an umbrella or a pen, Sherlock found out. The silly grin would probably never leave his face he thought when he cuddled up to Mycroft on the bed. They would talk and have sex and be nice. And kiss. There had to be lots of kisses. Without anyone watching, this time…

Sherlock was looking forward to the foreseeable future very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more sex to come in the epilogue!


	4. Epilogue - A Lovely Time In Baker Street

“You must come upstairs!”

“Please, no. I can’t move anymore anyway…” He had insisted on bringing Sherlock home with his car. He didn’t drive often but he had felt like it. Bringing his dear boy home. No matter that he was feeling as if he’d climbed a mountain after having sex with him not exactly eleven but still four times. Not that he was complaining...

Sherlock grinned. “But I’m sure John and Mrs Hudson want to greet you.”

“Dear God…”

“Come on… She probably hasn’t made the cake she had promised yet, but they will want to say ‘hello’.”

This was important to Sherlock – Mycroft was well aware. His friends meant a lot to him, especially John Watson and Mrs Hudson. The first one had been violent against his brother, and had Mycroft known about this right away, he would have had some serious words with the doctor. But Lestrade had only told him about it a few days later, when Sherlock had already recovered from his adventure with Culverton Smith, and he had clearly forgiven John, as he had always done with the Watsons, and Mycroft had let it rest. Next time he wouldn’t be so indulgent… And Mrs Hudson? Who thought that he was a reptile? It was hard to believe that she would accept him as his brother’s lover. But then, she seemed to be a rather unconventional woman… At least Lestrade and Miss Hooper wouldn’t be there. Two of Sherlock's friends were enough for the start. “Fine,” he gave in, wondering why he had bothered protesting at all. In the end, he always did what little brother wanted.

Sherlock pressed his hand. “Great.” He looked amazing. He always did, yes, but now, after their sex marathon, he was exceptionally beautiful with his flushed cheeks and his sparkling eyes. His hair was tamed again after being adorably tousled, and he was dressed decently again, but his entire appearance oozed ‘sex’. And Mycroft had no doubt that he didn’t look any different, minus the beauty of course.

“You are gorgeous,” Sherlock told him with narrowed eyes.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t read my mind,” Mycroft mumbled.

“Forget it. And it wasn’t even difficult to deduce. And it’s stupid. Handsome brother! Let’s go!”

°°°

Oh, the sweet, sweet boys! How sheepish Mycroft Holmes, the big bad politician, was looking! She hadn’t been very nice to him back then, on this horrible day when Sherlock had been in this ghastly hospital. And she had been very wrong – this man wasn’t cold at all. He had just been hiding his feelings behind this mask of superiority, and she, a woman with so much life experience, had not seen through it!

Today he had shown Sherlock that he was, in fact, very hot. She giggled to herself when she patted Mycroft's hand and told him to sit down and have a nice cuppa. They both looked as if they had been spending quite the exciting Sunday. A fresh bruise on the other side of Sherlock's neck, sore lips on both of them, and Sherlock was walking pretty weirdly. Ah, to be young and in love again! Perhaps she should ask the nice inspector to have dinner with her one day. Her herbal soothers could do wonders…

“Can you sit down, too?” she asked Sherlock, who was about to pour some water into a glass. And her sweet boy blushed. They really had not wasted any time!

“I can. I hope.” He grinned rather proudly.

John giggled and Mycroft hid his face in his palms. What an adorable man he was. He had even greeted Rosie in a cutely stiff way, and she had gurgled at him.

“Don’t you worry, Mr Holmes,” she said soothingly. “We will be hush-hush about you two lovebirds, won’t we, John?”

“Of course,” the doctor agreed, bouncing the baby on his thigh. “I texted with Molly earlier and she is very aware of this, too. And Greg said his lips were zipped.”

“It’s excellent blackmail material,” Mycroft mumbled behind his hands, and Sherlock patted his back.

“Nobody will do that, brother mine.”

“No,” Mrs Hudson said firmly. “If anyone ever tries to harm you, they’ll have to face me!”

“And end up in your trunk on the road to nowhere,” Sherlock said, grinning, and she nodded.

“Exactly. Take some biscuits, Mr Holmes.”

“Mycroft. Please. Now that you… know my darkest secret, you can as well use my first name.”

“Oh, how nice! I’m Martha.”

“You never offered this to us,” said John, staring at her with his cup halfway to his mouth.

“No. And if this is your darkest secret, Mycroft, I can assure you that mine are much…”

“Please, no, Mrs Hudson,” chuckled Sherlock, and John laughed, and Rosie punched him in the face, and her new son Mycroft groaned, and it was all most lovely.

°°°

“No, Sherlock, this is not a good idea.” He in Sherlock's bedroom. Now Sherlock was closing the door with his heel. What could possibly be on his little brother’s mind...

“Ah, just wanted to show you my bedroom. You never saw it.”

“I never had a reason to…”

“No. but now you have. As my lover, I mean. My future spouse.”

Spouse? “Sherlock, you are aware that we, no matter how supportive your friends are, cannot get married?” And was his brother proposing after not even twenty-four hours as a couple?

Sherlock beamed at him. “I know. Still we can have a party and pretend to exchange rings. You are already wearing one, though.”

“Just for the sake of pretence.” A long time ago, he had thought he had to pretend that he was taken. He couldn’t actually remember the reason for that. “I can take it off if you want.” He didn’t even notice the plain golden band anymore.

Sherlock waved this away. “Nah. No need. We can’t wear matching rings anyway; I do know that. Maybe we’ll get tattoos in a hidden spot; we’ll see.”

Get _what_?! “Sherlock, I…”

“So… In the nights when we can’t be together for whatever reason – I hope that won’t happen very often – I’ll be lying on this bed, thinking of you. Naughty thoughts, too, maybe.” Sherlock gave him a happy and more than a bit cheeky smile.

Who would have thought that his virgin brother had so much sexual energy? Mycroft might have pulled something in his groin sometime during the afternoon. Maybe when he had been rubbing his cock between Sherlock's thighs. Or when he had been licking Sherlock's sweet little hole. Or when he… “Sherlock, what are you doing? Your friends are out there!”

“They are busy. Mrs Hudson with the dishes and John with Rosie. We’ll be quick and quiet.”

“You’re going to wear me out on the first day!” But Mycroft let himself be divested of his clothes with a resigned – but also pleased – sigh. It was nice to be wanted so much.

“There must be something…” Sherlock was rummaging in his drawer. “Ah. Hand lotion. I think this will do.”

“Sherlock, I absolutely refuse to…” Mycroft shut up when he was pushed onto the thick mattress.

“I wanted to wait until we are in my room. Probably we won’t spend much time here so I wanted our first time to be here.” Sherlock smiled cheekily and proceeded to straddle his lap.

“Brother, when you woke up this morning, you didn’t even remember that we’d kissed! And now you… Oh… Lord…”

“Damn, that feels good. Ouch…”

“Not so fast!”

“Not my fault that you are built like a porn star!”

“A… what?!” It didn’t help. He had fallen down the rabbit hole and his virgin of a brother had turned into an insatiable lover without so much as a snap of his fingers. Better to go with the flow as there was no stopping baby brother anyway when he truly wanted something. And miraculously, he wanted him...

Sherlock started to ride him, and the sight was breathtaking. He was so gorgeous, sitting on him, his perfectly sculpted torso on display, his head bent to expose his neck with Mycroft's marks on it. He was so incredibly tight and hot and Mycroft would probably not be able to walk straight the next day, and Sherlock should better not have to run after a criminal, either… People were in the house; people who, at worst, had their ears at the door now, or, at best, knew what they were doing.

He minded less and less the longer Sherlock was bouncing up and down on him with flying curls, an adorably opened mouth and while uttering cute little noises of pleasure.

His brother’s long, curved cock was bobbing around untouched, and eventually Mycroft had mercy and started to beat him off, and so it was Sherlock who came first, showering him with hot semen while biting on his own fist in an unheard display of discretion. Mycroft followed him only a few seconds later, painting him inside, and he wrapped his arms around his brother when he collapsed on him, finally worn out. Hopefully. In the end it had only been the fifth time and he had demanded eleven…

“If your landlady now comes in and brings fresh tea, I’ll scream,” he whispered into Sherlock's ear, and the detective burst out laughing.

“Yeah, and John will stand beside her, showing us his ‘thumbs up’.”

“A delightful picture.”

“They are not that indiscreet, brother,” Sherlock soothed him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Mycroft. This was the best day of my life.”

“Mine, too, little brother. The pleasure is on my side.”

“The day’s not over yet though…”

“Oh Lord, help me.”

“Don’t think so. You’ll have to do it all on your own.”

“With pleasure. I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled away to look into his eyes. His face was all smiles and sparkling eyes. “I love you too, brother mine.”

Mycroft reached up to cup his cheeks. “I’m very glad. You don’t just say that to get more sex, do you?”

“Got me. What haven’t we done yet?” Sherlock winked and Mycroft pinched his nose.

“Incorrigible boy.”

“Yes, but I’m _your_ incorrigible boy.”

“Aren’t I lucky?”

“You are.”

“Yes. I am. The luckiest man in the universe.”

“No, Mycroft.” Sherlock kissed his lips. “That’s me.”

And so what had begun with drunken kissing in front of Sherlock’s assembled friends had led to this – two men, happy in love, feeling drunk on sentiment and sexual satisfaction, and neither of the logic-loving, rational, _the-body-is-just-transport_ brothers Holmes minded it one bit.

👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨 The End 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨 


End file.
